White Noise
by centigrade
Summary: It is only when you have stopped shivering then do you realise that she never left her name.
1. diagnosis 01, entrances

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**WHITE NOISE  
**-------------------

a constant background noise; _especially_: one that drowns out other sounds  
— Merriam-Webster

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* * *

It's not a large room, but its walls are tall and foreboding, bleached with whitewash.

There is no door. Doors let people in and out, but they've gone and locked you inside this little cell, so really, there's no door.

It's been days, weeks, months; nobody has came in, and you've certainly never been out. You cannot escape simply because there is no door, no exit. Not because they'll tie you to a cold, metal table and cut the flesh off your bones if you as much as place a foot oustide. _There is no door_, you've established this. It's fact, truth, reality.

But then that panel over the hole in the wall_ not a door not a door never a door_ opens, and someone enters.

A girl.

This has never happened before. Betrayed, you allow your eyes to study her, to remember every miniscule detail of the girl who puzzles you so with a single step in the wrong place. You are keenly aware that she's treating you similarly, her gaze sweeping over your body chaotically. A famished predator evaluating its chosen victim.

_Hello, I'm Fujino._ You extend an inviting hand.

The girl hesitates, reaches out; her fingers close in over yours._ It's warm,_ you think.

When she pulls away, the heat lingers—it travels across your arm, up your neck.

The girl smiles; she enjoys observing you writhe in embarrassment, and the flush on your face only intensifies when you realise. She doesn't say a word, doesn't make a sound, and just when you are beginning to suspect that she doesn't even breathe, she gently slaps a hand to each of your cheeks and ensnares your face in her palms.

_Hello, Fujino-chan._

You are powerless to do anything but bite the bottom of your lip anxiously as she grins.

Her fingers start crawling, and you're faintly aware that her touch is ghostly—like threads of wind, weaving into your hair with a charming ease that beckons you to draw in. You relent, not because you want to, but because you can't do anything to stop her and she knows this very well.

Very soon, you are trapped in a sky of green. _It's a lovely green,_ you rationalise, and some part of you sneers at your optimism. There is nothing lovely about a green that's about to hook its claws around your throat and choke you, drown you, throw you against the ocean floor until there's nothing left of you to choke and drown and throw.

Her eyes bore into yours. Something inside you—instinct, probably—screams at you to run.

You tilt your head sharply to stare at the ceiling.

This is not a good idea, because the fluroscent lights glare in your eyes and offer you a splitting headache.

The wind in your tresses stops flowing, curls into fists, and yanks angrily. You flinch, tears springing to the edge of your eyes at the pain, and dig your nails into her outstretched arms. It's futile; the girl only smirks and closes in. Her eyes narrow into _lovely green_ dangerous slits.

_I'll see you again, Fujino-chan,_ she sighs, the ragged whisper of air caressing your lips.

You shudder in a strange concoction of fear, shame, and anticipation.

The next thing you know, the girl has vanished. There is no puff of smoke, no gust of wind; she is gone—hopefully, gone _forever_. You do not want this girl in your life—this girl with her lovely green sky and warm hands, who destroys your fact, truth, reality in just one encounter.

It is only when you stop shivering then do you realise that she never left her name.

--

--

You don't recall the existence of the speaker, yet it is hangs from an extreme corner of the ceiling right before your eyes. Perhaps it was installed while you were sleeping, but that couldn't be the case since nobody has ever came in before _except for her_ and speakers don't mount themselves to the wall.

It's a mystery, a phenomenon.

You decide to ignore it.

But this proves to be incredibly difficult, even for you, because the speaker is loud and annoying. It refuses to shut up, and it's not as if you can shimmy up the walls and give it a good kick in the name of peace.

**SUBJECT FUJINO**, it yells. **CAN,** a crackle of static. **-OU. HEAR. US.**

_No, I can't because the noise level is frightening in here_ is what you'd like to say, but you don't have the energy to argue so you just nod obediently. You're seated on the hard surface of the concrete floor, tightly hugging your knees to your chest and wondering how they could see you if there wasn't any cameras around the place. Maybe you should inspect the walls again.

**WE. WILL. SEND IN A.** You calmly note that the electronic speech was grossly disjointed. **CHILD.**

_Ara_, you say intelligently. This is not good news. From what you knew, everything they sent in was another expandable playtoy they used to conduct experiments on your kind—to goad you, slowly push you to the point where you felt as though you could explode, to test your reaction and let them jot everything down on their clipboards in messy, excited penmanship.

You're not sure how you were aware of that, but the information lies cold and stale inside the recesses of your mind. A deadweight.

The panel over the hole in the wall slides open again, but this time, you're prepared.

Fixing a fierce glare into your expression, you charge at the intruder from the side and send them flying into a wall. _It's the wall with the speaker_, you realise, and you feel a brief glow of satisfaction as the annoying contraption wobbles from the impact.

**PLEASE. REFRAIN FROM. VIOLENCE.**

While you are distracted, the intruder quickly throws you off, tackles you onto the floor, and sits on you. This brings about the discovery that your opponent is female, very much so, and as you stare at her face, you cannot dismiss the feeling that she is very familiar.

_Oh._

It hits you with the subtlety of a freight train: this was the problematic girl.

You are unable to decide whether to feel impossibly displeased or unusually ecstatic. The girl does not get up, and you eventually choose to settle for a mixture of both. When the pressing matter of warring emotions is resolved, you focus your attention on your foe who appears content to remain seated on you for the rest of eternity.

In fact, she is even smiling. You are overwhelmed with the need to flee; it is not a pleasant smile.

_We meet again, Fujino-chan._ Her eyes gleam in amusement. You are tempted to point out that she seems to be quite fond of your name, but you're not given the chance as her hands wrap around your neck, tensed, as though they were waiting for the opportunity to throttle you.

There is something different about her, something indefinitely more feral than before.

She bends forward. It takes every bit of your willpower not to shy away. The girl speaks; her words are smothered in a sickening sweetness, like a cake richly coated in layers and layers of chocolate. Chocolate so thick that it would stick to the walls of your mouth, trickle down your gullet and into your windpipe, where it would clot together and slowly suffocate you.

_Do you know who I am?_

For all the burning curiosity you possess, you can only shake your head timidly.

The girl sneers—she had expected that. It was all going according to plan: she was in a position of power over you, and she adores shoving that fact into your face as much as she adored shoving _her face_ into yours. It is not altogether a bad thing; she had a pretty face, after all.

_I can tell you,_ she dangles a carrot in front of you. _If you give me what I want._

_What do you want?_ you ask, but something inside you already knows the answer. The girl's expression is taunting, and you summon all your strength to avoid her malicious stare, turn your head away, deny her of—

She tilts your chin up so you look at her straight in the eye. What you see in the lovely green sky scares you. You are completely at her mercy, and mercy is something that she seems to be short of, because she pulls your head back roughly and leans in without missing a beat.

_This girl,_ you think to yourself hazily. _This girl knows what she wants._

It is a very long time before you start thinking again.

--

--

The first time they met, it was confusing.

Two children, filthy and bruised, standing by the worn-out path. The landscape is torn and desolate, hiding the few survivors behind sloping hills and muddy rocks. A chilling breeze swept by; the weather wasn't cold, but where there were once trees there were now burnt stumps, and the gale was slipping through the cracks and buffeting their broken bodies.

The taller of the pair was supporting a rusty, crumbling bicycle by the aged handlebars.

The shorter girl leaned on a charred metal pipe like a pseudo walking stick, breathing heavily.

Each had a hardened gleam in their eyes, a jaw set in weariness, tatted rags that hung loosely upon shoulders, soles marred by years of constant barefooted travel. Bicycle had bandages wound tightly around her head, dirty and bloodstained. Pipe was paler than she ought to be, and she could manage only irregular intakes of air as her lungs quivered in protest.

Bicycle smiled cautiously. Pipe mirrored her expression.

_Who are you?_

--

--

Everything is silent.

Everything is silent, except for the blood roaring in your ears and the ghost of a chuckle that couldn't force its way out of her throat. You are dumbfounded; your fingers fly to your swollen lips as the heat painstakingly uncoils itself from within your stomach. The girl, unsurprisingly, wears a self-satisifed smirk.

_This is not the first time,_ she informs you.

You remain speechless, and she follows your example.

The whitewashed walls twist and warp in your swaying vision. You can feel an upcoming headache, now that you have nothing to concentrate on except for her shallow breathing and her darting eyes. The silence is stifling, awkward, and you cannot cope with this.

_Have we met before?_ you finally ask. Before this. Before the room. Before everything.

The girl stiffens like a deer caught in headlights, panic evident in her eyes as she regards you with distrust. You are mystified by her reaction. It's vulnerable and horrified, a far cry from her usual sneers and scowls. You are no fool to let this chance slip by.

_Tell me_. Your voice is little more than a whisper, a reluctant villain pleading with a defeated hero to give up before he was forced to plunge his sword into him.

Her gaze is directed right at you, but it is blank and unseeing. _Kruger_, she complies half-heartedly.

It is not the answer you want.

There is a pause, then her eyes shift back into remarkable focus. Kruger pulls herself away from you.

The hole in the wall—never a door—slides open and shut.

And then there was one.

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**A/N: **For today's special, we will be serving a generous portion of mindrape, aptly complemented by a wisp of melodrama, along with a glass of well-brewed _what is going on_. Enjoy.


	2. diagnosis 02, gateways

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**WHITE NOISE  
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a steady, unvarying, unobtrusive sound, used to mask or obliterate unwanted sounds.  
— dictionary . com

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* * *

Madness.

The panel of glass hadn't been there before, had it? You shuffle over to the wall, inquisitively rapping your knuckles over the transparent panel. Thick; built to withstand anything short of a wrecking ball. How odd—did they think you would try to run through it like some lunatic?

A quick inspection shows that the glass is not new, for the edges of the panel are weathered and the distinct smell of stale disinfectant lingers. You can see beyond it: a brightly-lit corridor that stretched past your quarters into the depths of unknown territory, straight and neverending.

This was madness.

The glass panel has been here for a long time, yet it has never been here.

The world taunts you further by presenting the facpe you had been desperately trying to forget. It is a strenuous task—forgetting, that is—especially in the case of this particular girl. A slight frown crawls across your mouth, vanishing once you are aware that it is not wise to lower your guard around her presence.

Kruger smiles widely, but it stops there. It takes you a few seconds to realise why she does not make a move to harass you: she is on the other side. The other side of the thick glass panel, beyond the hole in the wall and the whitewashed room.

_A window_, you murmur, appalled by the discovery. _It is a window._

You shut your eyes, and something deep inside you twists sickeningly. You are not sure what that something is, but your right hand curls into a fist, tight enough for your nails to break into the skin of your palm. You do not want this girl here. She meddles with the principles of the carefully-constructed cube of logic you have built, and everything about her gives you a migraine.

In the creases of confusion, a single thought manages to stay afloat:

_You do not want this girl here._

A punch is aimed and executed towards her face, and for a moment, you are surprised to find that it is yours. Yet there is no one else in the little whitewashed room, so how could it be anyone else? Your knuckles clash against the glass painfully, and when you withdraw your hand, the face is gone.

The speaker in the corner crackles hesitantly: **PLEASE. REFRAIN FROM. VIOLENCE.**

Your fist throbs in excurciating agony and your head decides to follow its example, but the face is gone and you are glad.

_Thank goodness._

The world fades to black.

--

--

When you wake up and peel your eyelids open, the face is there to greet you with a self-indulgent grin.

You are tempted to throw your still smarting fist into her nose, but you are usually a rational being. Instead, you sit up and glance around dazedly. Kruger crouches beside you at a proximity which shouldn't be legal, but what's truly surprising is that there are _four_ walls surrounding you.

_The window is gone._

Frantic, you turn your head to the edge of the ceiling. The speaker is still there, which comes as a surprise. You deduced that perhaps some phenomenons take longer to disappear, which is a perfectly logical conclusion. You blink and turn towards Kruger.

_What are you doing he_—

**SUBJECT FUJINO.** The speaker seems eager to remind you of its existence. **YOU HAVE BEEN. PRONE TO. DISPLAYING AGGRESSION RECENTLY. WE HAVE ASSIGNED. A CHILD. TO REGULATE. YOUR BEHAVIOR.**

The other girl is unfazed by the announcement. _That's me,_ she points to herself helpfully, a bark of laughter threatening to spill from her lips.

You are dismayed. Kruger is an unwelcome distraction who would probably be irrevocably pleased if you ever informed her of how great an effect she has over you. Kruger with the lovely green sky; with the patronizing smirk and the confident gait; with the satiated swagger and the disappearing act—

_The whitecoats tell me you've been bad;_ her voice is barely a whisper.

You scowl, indignant. _Tell them to stop messing around with the interior decoration_.

A gentle hand reaches out to cup your face, her thumb caressing the contours of your cheek. _You could hurt yourself,_ Kruger sighs.

_Why do you care?_ you shoot back. There is so much you don't understand, and you are done presuming and theorizing.

A dark look flickers across her eyes. _You should know_, she says unkindly.

You feel as though _should_ know, but all you do is draw blanks.

_You're bad,_ she begins, and each word is thick with hatred. _Because you don't remember._

You do not know what to say to that. There is a question behind the statement, that much is for certain, yet it sinks just below the surface, murky and undefined beneath the water. You give up; the water is boiling hot, and you do not want to scald yourself. Silence is the only answer you can offer, but the other girl clearly doesn't appreciate the subtlety.

She fixes you with a fierce, all-consuming glare._ Tell me, what is it that you don't remember?_

You cannot break out of the whitewashed room, the enclosing walls, the chains, the wait, the routine, but—

_Who are the whitecoats?_

—you are a brilliant escape artist.

Kruger is disgusted. The panel over the hole opens and closes; she vanishes once more.

When you find yourself able to breathe again, you congratulate yourself on a job well done.

--

--

You don't know how she does it, but she disturbs your sleep.

Her face appears in your slumber, mocking and cold and distant and frightened and so _(familiar)_beautiful.

It must have something to do with the green sky, you convince yourself. You must be jealous. Green skies, after all, are not commonplace. Your sky—the only sky you've seen apart from hers, of course—are white, only the pure, untouched white of the bleached ceiling plaster. Your sky was blank, but her sky was filled with things you could not decipher and you fear you never will.

You must be jealous.

Jealousy isn't supposed to feel this way, though. There were picture books, once; _Tate had a shiny red balloon, but Reito had nothing and he did not like that._ Jealousy was rapacious greed, a green-eyed monster, clawing arms, a feverish hunger. All you had was the sickening ennui of an extinguished flame and the dreadful wish that it would go away.

Or that she would come back.

Either would work just fine.

It was one of those dreams again. The kind where you knew you were dreaming. You knew that it was all just a silly little dream, conjured by the silly little thoughts at the back of your silly little mind. The kind where you knew what was coming.

You did not like what was coming.

Her face is gaunt, masked by shallow shadows. _This is not the first time,_ she says.

You don't feel talkative today. You never do.

_I want it back._ It is scary how something so quiet can sound so harsh.

_What do you want?_ Your eyes trace her lips. _You've already taken something of mine._

_The grand prize. _An unreadable smile forms. _It belongs to me._

At this point, you are ready to question your bravado, but you cannot resist asking: _What grand prize?_

Kruger lifts her hand from the darkness, and her index finger slowly draws a perfect circle upon your chest.

_Never forget that this,_ she taps her finger on your flesh—on your heart, _is mine._

Her eyes scared you. The lovely green sky, filled with all those undecipherable things, was gone; it had been replaced by a smoldering heat, a forest stroked with wildfire, as though she was remembering something. Something terrible.

You flinch, and quickly learn that this was a grievious mistake.

_Fujino, _she sighs, but nothing more.

For a moment, you are inclined to believe that she would pardon the action, but you are proven very wrong when her hand lashes out to grip your shoulder and pull you crashing towards her lips. You almost laugh; you're on top, but she's the dominant one. There is something impossibly comfortable about this, and you are surprised at how complacent you are being.

The need for oxygen breaks both of you apart.

_This is not the first time,_ you quote, earning yourself an odd look.

Her puzzled expression turns blank when you follow up with a question.

_When was the first?_

Kruger retreats; the shadows swallow her silhoutte. You wake up.

_Coward._

The worst thing is that you aren't sure who that should have been addressed to.

--

--

The dusty path is long and narrow, winding over dunes of withering meadows and dehydrated riverbeds.

Bicycle is fine—she is on the verge of collapsing, but she is fine. Pipe, however, was another matter altogether. She moved like a dying animal, old and limping; only the metal pipe she wielded had a weight substantial enough to make prints upon the dry ground as she staggered along the trail.

Step by step, step by step.

Bicycle notices, but she does not say a word.

Dawn approaches. The despairing land is lit ablaze, an ember set to wood, and the sky is streaked with an encouraging variety of colours: red, orange, yellow. Bicycle cannot help but stop to admire the sunrise, and Pipe's exhausted body is grateful for the interruption. The warmth of the spectrum settles on their faces; it is a pleasant change from the usual grind.

But time is a luxury they cannot afford. The pair make haste, dragging their weary bones over dismal hills and deserted valleys.

Step by step, step by step.

The sun retreats behind despondent clouds.

Strangely enough, it was Bicycle who first keels over. Possessed by a feverish worry for her companion, Pipe hobbles over to check her pulse and sighs in relief. She quickly hauls the taller girl to her feet; it is a gesture rough and demanding. There was no room for kindness.

Before the the sky rained metal, before murder ceased to belong only in campfire stories, perhaps there was.

_You must not fall here_, Pipe warns. Anywhere but here. Anywhere but under a blanket of gray, lost amidst a decaying field out in the middle of devastation.

Anywhere _else_.

Bicycle pauses. _I am dying,_ she intones. It is neither complaint nor exaggeration; it is fact, and Pipe desperately wishes that it be anything but.

The rotting wheels of the bicycle squeaks every second, accompanied by the muffled thumps of the metal pipe against soil. Pipe feels her fingers tighten over her walking aid. _One more step,_ she reassures. _One more step._ The mantra is recited, again and again, like a prayer stranded in the threads of time.

_One more step, _Bicycle echoes. It is a hollow sound, devoid of hope.

They walk on. Step by step, step by step.

_One more step_—

_closer to home._

--

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